


Worthwhile

by surveycorpsjean



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Canon Compliant, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 12:22:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8667550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surveycorpsjean/pseuds/surveycorpsjean
Summary: In which, it's Viktor that breaks.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i debated over posting this or not for a while,, but here

The world eats behind his eyes. _Eats._ Tears into, devours.

The world runs their pretty little mouths, with their pretty little words. The world is _loud,_ so loud. Hurrah! You’re something, you’re nothing. You’re interesting, so they like you. You’re weird, you’re a joke. Big feet, small eyes. Bad fashion, do you have? Are your hands double jointed? Do you walk funny?

_Loud,_ they eat. They eat so loud.

He’s himself; Viktor is. A person strong enough to not give one single flying fuck what anyone else thinks, and simultaneously live off the words they give.

He loves skating, he loves the ice. He loves the crisp chips that fly off skidding skates, like shaving off the top layer of blocky cheese. Loves the lights, and the sparkly outfits. Loves the _eyes._

But he’s old, they said.

So Viktor fell in love with something else. Yuuri, the koi man.

A koi, you ask? Have you ever seen a koi grow?

Once, when Viktor was fifteen and young and wishful, he asked for a koi pond. He got it, of course. _He,_ the prodigy ice child who won against men twice his age.

Have you ever seen a koi grow? Give them room. Give them a pond the size of a baseball field, and they’ll grow bigger than you, one day.

Yuuri has been that koi fish, that timid, seemingly unsure little fishy. He’s grown before Viktor’s eyes. Confidence only came with time – the anxiety won’t leave. Will it ever, you think? No, but that’s why Viktor exists. To support him; to hold his hands over his ears and tell him to _Stop. Thinking._

To block out that world that eats and _eats and eats and eats –_

They’re koi too. The world, the mouths. They hunger for flesh and blood and tears and weakness those _cameras-_

But who will block out Viktor’s ears?

Who will hold his shaking hands, when the voices are just so _hungry?_

_“Such a naïve coach.”_

_“He should’ve never quit skating.”_

_“He was old news anyways.”_

_“An openly gay couple? What bad publicity.”_

_“He’s only hurting Yuuri.”_

_“Don’t come home, Viktor.”_

_“Not with him.”_

Loud loud loud hungry hungry hungry.

 

But Viktor is strong. He’s been strong his whole life. A pillar of hope for those who wished to be anything more than something.

Viktor protects him – he _will_ protect Yuuri, because Yuuri is his everything. Yuuri is the sun and the moon and every goddamn cliché piece of shit metaphor you’ve read a hundred fucking times.

But sometimes, Viktor’s hands shake. Sometimes the world eats behind his eyes, and everything hurts just a little more.

It’s nothing.

 

* * *

 

 The first time is after the Grand Prix, when Yuuri promises to skate one more year.

_Just one more! I’ll win!_

Yuuri’s eyes had watered with the loss, but Viktor’s eyes stayed dry, for him.

_One more year,_ Viktor had agreed, with the sharpest pain he’d ever felt.

So many eyes on him. So many _cameras._ So many words.

Viktor knows, okay. He knows he was a rookie coach, who could’ve done a bazillian things better.

It lands them here, on the rinky-dink rink of Hasetsu, Yuuri practicing a program harder than ever before. He’s so beautiful – hands smooth, parting through the air like the rudder of a boat.

Viktor leans against the wall of the rink, studying Yuuri with cloudy-clear eyes. Eyes that should see more than they do. Eyes that should watch for the slight hitch in his step or the way he cheats out of an extra spin. Instead he just sees Yuuri; Yuuri, who wants to make him proud. Who wants to make himself proud. Yuuri, whose hair swivels around his face, whose lower lip pulls between his teeth.

Yuuri is looking at him.

“How was that?” Yuuri pants, lip red from being chewed on, eyes so fucking pretty, that Viktor’s stomach drops.

“Absolutely gorgeous, love.” Viktor smiles, tipping his head, shoulder coming up by his ear as he leans on his right arm. “But you got lazy towards the end.”

Yuuri sighs, stretching his arms, and swaying a little, “I know, I’m sorry. I’m a little tired.”

“Do you want to take a break?”

“No, no. I’m going to get this down.”

“It’s not worth anything if you’re exhausted.”

“It’s worth something,” Yuuri smiles, with a nod, and Viktor’s chest suddenly aches. Eyes see Yuuri, from all those months ago. He sees the Yuuri that sniveled at the loss, but tried to stand tall amongst the cameras. Against the _voices._

Viktor shielded him. A human wall, he was, pushing Yuuri behind him, behind the voices. He took the brunt, the force, the shouts of _Viktor! How do you feel about Yuuri’s performance? Will you quit coaching? Will you keep ice skating? Are you going to find a new pupil? Are you retiring?_

“Babe?” 

He jumps, pulled to the present like the tug of a leash. Viktor sputters into standing straight, blinking, running a hand through his hair with a sheepish smile, “Sorry, sorry. Yeah, let’s run through it once more together, then we’ll call it a day.”

Yuuri looks suspicious; one eye squinted, one eyebrow raised. You can’t bullshit Yuuri. You can’t exactly bake him a bullshit cake and call it chocolate.

But Viktor will try, because he _must_ be strong. Must hold himself high and take Yuuri’s hand. Precious, precious Yuuri.

Stupid world. Shut the fuck up.

 

* * *

 

 

The second time, is during sex.

He’s got his hands beneath Yuuri’s knees, thumbs rubbing into that little patch of skin that pudges around the kneebone. He’s got Yuuri on his back, but not really. His back is arched off the bed, head tipped back, shoulders supporting the majority of his weight, like it’s normal.

Viktor is sweating, hair sticky against the back of his neck, skin _boiling_ from how wet and tight and literally perfect Yuuri is.

Yuuri’s mouth opens, eyes squeezing shut, and mouths in a half whisper _“Viktor-“_

It’s raspy, and tangible. It reverberates, vibrating into Viktor’s skin, through his blood, into his heart.

And suddenly, something snaps. Like, like – like uh, like elastic sweatpants a size too small. Like, a raw hairband that’s been through the shower. Like the trigger of a paintball gun.

Viktor’s eyes swell wide, and his breath sucks in unbelievably hard – because he’s in _shock._ Utter, complete shock.

He’s shaken, to the core, that Yuuri is beneath him like this. That Yuuri is mewling his name, scratching at the sheets, arching up and wrestling against his hands - a year later, and this is still real.

Viktor knows what it’s like to feel inadequate. I mean, not _often,_ but he’s felt it. The disappointment, and the raw churning in your chest.

But this is nothing like that. This is like, sitting at god’s feet and knowing you’re _garbage._

Viktor can’t breathe, because it’s overwhelming and concerning and incredibly out of character. Viktor knows he’s handsome, knows he’s talented, knows he strong.

But for a moment, here, he can’t breathe. Yuuri’s chest is muscled and slicked with sweat, his navel hairless, his thighs tensed with strength. He’s too bright, too much, too fucking _beautiful_ for Viktor to comprehend.

They’ve fucked across the kitchen counter, and against the wall of his closet. He ate Yuuri out against the bathroom wall of a takeout restaurant in Hong Kong, and Yuuri has sucked him off beneath _so_ many tables-

But it’s overwhelming, all of a sudden, and Viktor is chipping.

_Loud,_ it’s loud.

He hides the weird look on his face, by leaning forward and pressing his nose into Yuuri’s collarbone. His skin tastes good, for fucks sake. Yuuri smells like Yuuri, and it quells the feeling, just a little.

Leaning up like this changes the position, and Yuuri moans out something so beautiful, that Viktor fights the urge to cry.

He feels guilty, holding back tears as he presses his hips flush with Yuuri’s, time and time again – it’s like he’s tainting Mother Mary. Like pouring red wine on a wedding gown.

Yuuri’s nails come to claw up and down his back, knees hooking by his hips, and Viktor feels himself chip just a little more.

_You don’t deserve this._

 

* * *

 

 Nobody is here – no world, no voices, no velvety chords to whisper words of acid against his ear.

But he hears something.

Viktor is at the foot of his bed, staring, naked, at the mirror across the room.

And

 he

  _hears_

_them._

Nobody is here. He hears them. Nobody. _Nobody._

Why? Why? Dear god, the radio is off.

His eyes look swollen. Is his hair thinning?

The reflection looks back, and talks.

_“You’re washed up, Viktor._ ”

The world has a voice, has many, many voices. Billions, with cameras and microphones, with magazines and blogs.

Why, for the love _god,_ are the voices here too?

This bedroom was all he had left. Four walls, one, two, three. The only quiet place, that he could sit and simply be. Where he could trail his hands up and down the soft, soft skin of Yuuri’s arms. Where he could sleep with a nose against his neck and toes against his own.

_“He’ll get over you.”_

Viktor stares. His chest is littered, lightly, in small hickies from the man sleeping in the bed above him.

But Viktor sits on the floor, and trails his hands up and down the front of his shins, feeling too big for his skin. He scratches, nails skimming. He scratches harder, and it feels good. Digs his nails more, and watches red lines pop up against the white.

Inhale, inhale, inhale-

 

* * *

 

With the ice beneath his feet, he feels new. Its cool, it’s nice, Yuuri skates around him, and it’s breathtaking.

But that itch – every time Viktor closes his eyes, every single goddamn –

“Viktor!” Yuuri beams, swirling around just for fun – giggling like the entire world _won’t_ be watching tomorrow.

“Hm?”

“Can we go out tonight?” Yuuri skates to his side, and dips a hand in Viktor’s back pocket.

“Of course,” Viktor smiles, and crosses the short distance to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Wherever you want.”

“I want to see a movie.”

“A movie it is then.”

Yuuri goes back to practicing with a lighter skip in his step – but Viktor’s head fills like a balloon. His lips tingle, his skin burns, where Yuuri touched him.

_Undeserving,_ he hears.

 

* * *

 

As time turns, it only gets worse. As interviews are called, as the press wants to know their schedules, their blood type, their eating habits,  the amount of socks in their bottom drawer-  

Viktor knows he needs help. Knows, because it’s hard to breathe all the fucking time. Because the words that sift through his head aren’t his own.

Viktor can ignore it. Can smile, for the whole world to see – but when it starts affecting Yuuri, he puts his Salvator Ferragamo leather loafer’ed foot down, and sits with Yuuri  after dinner one night. He’s going to do this, dammit. He won’t let Yuuri be affected by this, this self-doubt.

It’s just – Viktor’s hands shake. He has a hard time looking Yuuri in the eye. He’s _chipping._ And it’s not okay, and it’s not normal, and Viktor isn’t _stupid,_ okay, he knows something is wrong. But it’s harder than it seems.

They sit down, on the couch, Yuuri smothered into his side like a soft baby dog. Puppy. Baby dog, fucken’ hell, Viktor’s brain is fried-

“You okay?” Yuuri tips his head up.

“Um,” Viktor pauses. It’s hard to speak. His palms sweat.

 Yuuri sits up immediately, body going tense at the hesitation. Viktor doesn’t hesitate, really. Not usually. He’s supposed to carry himself with a head held high, with a confidence unparalleled, with not one doubt in the words that slip past his mouth.

“You’ve been sleeping, right?” Yuuri presses a palm against Viktor’s forehead, and the touch is so electric, that Viktor resists the urge to flinch. Here, he can see every swirl of honey-brown in Yuuri’s eyes. Every dark shade, every pick of the light; it’s intimidating, because he sees love in them.

Viktor opens his mouth- words are supposed to go there.

_I need help._

_I’m hearing things._

_I feel so inadequate, and I don’t know why._

_I’m so confused, please, please just –_

“I had a bit of a fever yesterday,” Viktor smiles, because he’s a coward. Coward! Coward you fucking coward! You piece of shit, you garbage, no good, lying whore-

Yuuri’s face falls, “Really?” His hand falls to Viktor’s neck, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

His palm is warm, and alive. Viktor can feel the blood pulse with his heartbeat.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” Viktor smiles. “You’ve been working so hard~”

Yuuri frowns, and lifts his hand to boop Viktor’s nose, “Dumb. You can bother me with anything, you know. Your health is important.”

Those words hit hard. Viktor wishes his tongue wasn’t so dry. He wishes he could open his mouth and spill everything trapped behind his teeth. This is the love of his life. The _love_ of his _life._

“I’m going to make you some tea,” Yuuri decides, standing up.

Viktor laughs, “I don’t have a sore throat, sweetheart. It’s fine.”

“Shush!” Yuuri yells adorably, waddling to the kitchen, “Tea heals all wounds.”

 

* * *

 

Competition is fierce this year. Viktor has no doubt in Yuuri, because Yuuri is unbelievably talented, and works harder than anyone he’s seen.

But competition is fierce, and the reporters are talking, and Viktor wants to claw out his skin.

He can’t – he won’t, because Yuuri needs him to be strong. Viktor sees him bouncing his leg, one two, three four, one two one two- patterns, Morse code, maybe. If anything, it’d spell _I’m scared._

“You’re beautiful,” Viktor says, with a barely-there tremble in his voice. There’s a camera on them – there’s five- “Incredibly stunning.”

Yuuri smiles, a bit of hesitation in his eyes, “Thank you. Sorry, I’m just feeling…bleh.”

“No, no.” Viktor runs his fingers down Yuuri’s spine gently, “It’s okay to be nervous. You’re going to kill it out there.”

Yuuri shows a real smile, with teeth and squinty eyes, and Viktor’s heart does flip flops. Yuuri goes out there, braver than Viktor will ever be.

It seems so foreign, what used to be familiar. The rink used to be a second home, but now, the words, the _world-_

There’s announcers over the speakers, voices slightly muffled like the lady at the train station. They’re talking numbers, strategy, all a language that Viktor speaks, but ignores, until-

_“And again Viktor Nikiforov is here, coaching Yuuri Katsuki for a second year in a row. Yuuri’s fifth placement in the Grand Prix last year left a bit of a bad reputation for-“_

Viktor zones out. Whites out. Feels his eyes run dry, like there’s sand in them.

_“-controversial, since they became an official couple-“_

_“-ch a shame. Yuuri showed such promise in the prelimi-“_

_“-ld be to blame?”_

Yuuri is across the rink, shaking hands and making small talk with the other skaters, like he didn’t just crush the competition. Like the announcers behind him aren’t talking smack.

Viktor feels weak. Feels his head spin. Feels a thousand and one words shoot him through the chest with physical force.

This used to be a home- this used to be a place where he _thrived –_

But he sees Yuuri, across the rink, and feels this overwhelming urge to hurl him away from these _words –_ to cover his own ears and yell.

There’s two girls, giggling to each other, oogling Yuuri. A group of men to his left, talking smack. An old lady whirling around an Italian flag. Children laughing.

Viktor is sweating.

He inhales, he inhales, he stays strong for Yuuri. He’s needed. He’s a _coach._ He’s needed, dammit, and he’ll see this through.

Yuuri meets his eye from across the rink, and curls his fingers into a cheesy heart, silly smile to match.

Viktor blows him a kiss, with all the false confidence he can muster.

 

* * *

 

The final straw, is in the shower.

Why? Dunno. He’s just there, washing shampoo out of his hair, and watching more strands flush down the drain. Around, and around, swirls of water and soap.

There’s so many words, so many thrums of doubt. He can’t look in the mirror – can’t sleep. Eating takes effort. His heart hurts all the time.

_No good no good washed up washed up, all washed up, lost at the age of thirty-_

He could deal with that, you know? Deal with the – whatever – that is this sickness. The dumb stupid world with their dumb stupid opinions, shoving their dumb dumb stupid microphones in everyone’s faces. He could do it, he’s _done_ it.

But he’s letting Yuuri down. He _let_ Yuuri down. Yuuri lost the Grand Prix last year. Yuuri is working his ass off, and Viktor isn’t working hard enough.

It’s that realization. It’s watching Yuuri tip his head and ask Phichit for stretching recommendations. It’s Yuuri bothering Yurio for advice on quads. It’s watching Yuuri bloom into this beautiful, _beautiful_ human being that just….

doesn’t need Viktor anymore.

And the words hurt a whole lot more, with the burn of the shower. So Viktor slides down against the shower wall, to the porcelain bottom of the tub, and lets out a sob so loud, it reverberates around the room. A round….round echo, as Viktor lets go.

Its a dark, sweeping feeling. One that makes him dizzy, as unease churns in his gut.

He cries. Viktor hasn’t cried in a long, long time, but today he does. His eyes burn, so he closes them, feeling water leak around the edges, as he hangs his head in his hands and sobs. His shoulders shake with effort, his nails dig into his arms.

It’s just too much. A wine glass filled to the brim.

The bathroom door flies open.

Yuuri is there, eyes wide, hand tight on the doorknob – but Viktor can’t look up, can’t move, just feels the water burn his skin with the heat, feels everything hurt.

“Viktor!” Yuuri gasps, scampering over to the shower curtain and throwing it open all the way, “Oh m- are- are-“ His words are panicky, and Viktor wants to _say something,_ but he’s shaking and he’s just not himself anymore.

Yuuri reaches for him, but hisses, arm pulling back, “Dear god, t-that’s _boiling –_ Viktor-“

He turns the water off, but Viktor digs his nails into his head and shakes.

Drip.

“Baby,” Yuuri’s voice cracks, as he slinks to his knees, “Can you talk?”

It’s too much at once; it’s a glass, shattering. A mask being chucked against a wall. A façade that he toiled so hard to keep, because by _god_ he was going to protect Yuuri. He was going to, he _had_ to, because he loves him he loves him he loves him he _loves-_

Now he sees.

Words are spiraling, down the drain, with the last of the water.

Yuuri’s hand gently prods into his sopping hair, pushing back the strands. Viktor doesn’t jump, but he swallows around a sob, and rubs his eyes hard enough to hurt.

“No, no,” Yuuri grips his wrists, and tugs, “It’s okay. I’m here, do you see me?” Yuuri leans in closer, and Viktor’s gut twists. “I’m here.”

 

_UNDESERVING_

 

_Y O U      A R E     U N D E S E R V I N G_

 

Viktor physically flinches this time, hands covering his ears, eyes flying open. Why are they so fucking _loud?_ Who are you? _Who are you?!_

“Let’s go to the bedroom, okay?” Yuuri reaches for a towel, “Okay? I’ll go with you. I’ve got you-“

“It’s so loud,” Viktor rasps, through the tears that drip down his cheek, and past his lips. Drip. Drip. Drippity drip.

Yuuri tenses, towel in hand. He blinks once, twice, before he exhales shakily, and wraps a towel around Viktor’s wet shoulders, “I know.”

 

* * *

 

He comes to in their bed. Somehow, Yuuri managed to maneuver him into his favorite pair of pineapple pajama pants – the ones with the pink draw string, and frills at the bottom.

Viktor wakes up in Yuuri’s arms, with a mantra of words being repeated against his collarbone.

_I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, god, I’m so sorry-_

He’s heavy with sleep, but awake enough to mumble, “What for?”

Yuuri jolts, sitting up, looking him in the eye. He’s been crying. Viktor wants to die.

“You’re awake!” Yuuri inhales, “Do you want water? Can you breathe okay?”

“I, I’m fine.” Viktor shifts, taking in the sight of their bedroom. Their bedroom stares back. “Are you-“

“I’m so _sorry._ ” Yuuri rubs his eyes, crawling up into Viktor’s lap and smothering his face in Viktor’s neck. "Viktor."

Viktor swallows, around sand. “What are you apologizing for? I’m- I’m sorry you-“

_I’m sorry you saw me like that._

“I knew somethings been off,” Yuuri sniffs. “I knew, and I did nothing.”

The world crashes around them, but Viktor tries, “I…”

Words, come on. Come on words, come on.

“Y-You had some kind of panic attack. You nearly took a chunk out of your arm with your nails."

“I need help,” is what he says. Finally- through gritted teeth.

“Okay,” Yuuri nods. “I’ll do anything. I’ll do anything for you.”

_“Don’t,_ ” he shakes, those nasty voices still trying- “I don’t deserve-“

Hands slap his cheeks. Two, one on each side. An angry face looms above him, gorgeous, stunning. Something cold runs down Viktor's spine.

The room feels a size too small.

“Don’t you _dare_ finish that sentence,” Yuuri says, in a tone that makes Viktor shiver. “You gave me a fucking heart attack. You’ve been- you’ve been _hurting._ ”

Viktor tries to talk, but a thumb brushes past his lips.

“I see it now,” Yuuri says, in a tone too beautiful. “I _know_ Viktor. I know what it’s like – that, that anxiety. Viktor don’t you see me shake, before every competition? I _know._ I know. I know what it’s like to not feel good enough. I _know._ ”

Viktor exhales, faking a laugh, “What all did I tell you?”

Yuuri’s eyes soften, “Not enough.”

Viktor swallows, “I don’t feel like myself.”

“Your brain will do that to you, I think.” Yuuri taps his head lovingly, and Viktor feels – feels different.

Not alone.

Lips press against his, in a kiss slightly salty from dried tears. Viktor swallows around the knot in his throat, and kisses back. When they separate, it’s by bare millimeters. With every exhale, their lips barely, barely brush. They’re hovering, in a space nearly nonexistent, the mood shifting with their breath.

“I love you so much,” Yuuri says, in that small, small space; his voice cracks. 

And Viktor snaps, hands clinging to the back of his shirt, mouth overflowing a thousand and one words – Yuuri relaying back –

"Please, for once, let _me_ protect _you_." 

 

* * *

 

_“Yuuri?”_

_“Hm?”_

_“Please, need me forever.”_

_There’s a laugh, free and ringing._

_“Viktor, I need you so, so much more than you will ever need me._ ”

 

* * *

 

Seeing a shrink feels weird at first – almost like you’re losing. Cause, you know, you’re seeing a _shrink._ Shrinks are for crazy people, yeah?

But Viktor learns that the therapist's name is Bernice, and she has two daughters, with a lovely wife to match. There’s really no crazy people – only brains that backfire, and people that need help.

The first time he sits there, in that red chair with the dime sized coffee stain on the arm, he says nothing. It’s hard, you know? To say words that you yourself don’t even understand.  So Miss Bernice talks instead, and slowly Viktor learns that words are okay.

Sometimes Yuuri comes with him, to lay his head on his shoulder and thrum his fingers against Viktor’s knee. Ah, how the tables have tabled, with Yuuri doing the protecting, and Viktor in _his_ arms.

But, he thinks, that’s what makes them good. Makes them a good, good pair. They support _each other._

The world isn’t quiet- it’s not _okay –_ but it becomes more tolerable, day by day.

Knowing Yuuri understands; knowing Yuuri walks where he walks-

It helps Viktor smile, genuinely. It helps him look at Yuuri and think _maybe I don’t deserve him, but neither does anyone else, so he’s mine, you fuckers._

His his his. Yuuri is his, _ice skating_ is his. His body is his and this world is his too, you know.

So when Yuuri stands on the ice, breath exhaling with effort, from a program well done, Viktor runs out on the ice to meet him, just like he did a year ago.

And he hears the _good things._ The things he didn’t hear before.

_“And the lovely couple embrace on the ice!”_

_“What sweethearts!”_

_“Yuuri did a near perfect routine! A personal best!”_

And Viktor feels free to laugh, and laugh, nose in Yuuri’s hair, arms around the tiny waist that he absolutely adores.

 Maybe he's undeserving. Maybe thats okay.

* * *

 

“Why are you so pretty?” Viktor asks, head thrown over the back of the couch, legs sprawled in front of him.

Yuuri pauses, one eyebrow raised, half a pizza hanging in his hand, lips slightly sticky with grease. His hair is up in everywhichway, pajama pants too big, shirt too small. He looks down at himself, then back up, before laughing, and shoving the rest of the pizza in his mouth, “Oh yeah, I’m the epitome of beauty.”

“I’m serious,” Viktor kicks. “You’re just, gorgeous, all the time.”

“Then you are _godlike,”_ Yuuri swallows, wiping his fingers off on his pajama pants and crawling onto the couch, to straddle his hips. His weight is warm, and it makes Viktor relax, just a little. “I think I fall in love with your eyes every day.”

Viktor laughs, almost embarrassed, hands coming up to rest on Yuuri’s thick thighs.

“You know that, right?” Yuuri tips his head, eyes baring into Viktor’s face like teeny lasers. "That I love you."

 Viktor can honestly nod, and say, “Yeah. Yeah.”

Yuuri’s smile is blinding, but it doesn’t choke him like before. Instead Viktor basks in it, smiling as well, all the way until Yuuri’s lips softly press against his own.

It’s just a simple press – slightly open mouthed, air exhaling through their noses, when Yuuri tips his head, and deepens it ever so slightly. It’s warm, and lazy, and it’s way too early for passion, but they feel alive anyways.  They pull apart silently, despite the small pull of bottom lips separating.

Yuuri is looking at him – Viktor stares back, because he can never, _ever_ get enough of him. Of his hair, and his round cheeks, his smooth neck and beauty marks beneath his collar.

A hand comes between them, thumb gently sweeping along Viktor’s bottom lip. Viktor smiles, and flicks out his tongue, murmuring, “Mm, meat lovers.”

Yuuri laughs, a surprised choke, where his body throws forward and his head bobs once. His shoulders shake, and Viktor’s do too, hands sweeping up and down the stunning legs atop him.

When he stops laughing, Yuuri crawls onto his chest, cheek against his shoulder, hands tangling with his own. They barely fit on the couch, but Viktor has never felt safer. It’s never been so _quiet._ Well, maybe a long time ago.

All he hears is Yuuri’s breathing, for one moment. No world.

“Are you okay?” Yuuri asks, meaning every possible sense of the word.

And Viktor is able to honestly nod, and tangle his free hand in black hair.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes the shower is scary, because he looks at clean porcelain tiles, and sees the place where he felt like nothing. Sometimes the loud stadiums of people make his chest ache, rather than vibrate with excitement, like it used to. Sometimes, not all the time. Occasionally. Infrequently. It happens, or it doesn’t happen.

But one day, in Montreal, where all the finest skaters are gathered, fighting to join the Grand Prix, Yuuri comes prepared with a beautiful program. It’s a new one, where he’s dressed in skin tight swirls of sparkles and fabric. He moves, captivating the world, captivating Viktor.

He’s warming up, cameras, lights, everyone following the half-dozen skaters sliding in circles.

But he stops. Mid practice. And looks Viktor in the eye.

What is he doing? _What is he doing? What is he doing, what is he-_

Yuuri stands, hands at his sides, staring, staring. Everyone is looking.

He extends a hand, dainty, and beautiful, and yells above the sounds of skates on ice, _“Viktor!”_

Viktor freezes _._

What? _What?_ What is happening, what, what-

The other skaters pause, eyebrows raised.

“Skate with me,” Yuuri demands, in front of everyone. People are watching, _watching._

“Yuuri?” Phichit tilts his head, “What are you doing?”

Murmurs, voices-

Yuuri’s face is set with determination,  “Viktor, please skate with me?”

 What, what-

Viktor stumbles to the edge, throwing on his skates half-hazardly, “Yuuri? What’s wrong?”

The music has stopped.

“I don’t have anything left to prove,” Yuuri smiles. He gestures around him, “And neither do you. You’re a wonderful coach, you don’t need me to win the Grand Prix for the world to see that.”

Viktor’s hands are shaking, but in a new way. He stares, jaw slack, as Yuuri keeps his arm outstretched.

There’s a hand at Viktor’s back – it’s Yurio, glare in place, lips curled behind his teeth. “Just go shut him up.”  

There’s cheering from the stadium.  

Viktor almost laughs. But they’re looking, and they- they’re _cheering._

He glides onto the ice, dressed in a suit and tie. The other contesters have paused, their attention completely on them. Yuuri looks beautiful, glowing underneath the lights, hand outstretched. They meet in the middle, shaky, unsure.

They hold hands. 

“Skate with me,” Yuuri beams.

So he does, on international television. In front of everyone. Where he lifts Yuuri and spins him, where they glide together, and woo the world all over again.

They come to life, on that ice. Viktor becomes Viktor- the one who surprised the world every year. Yuuri blossoms in his arms, and they glide, together, always.

There’s so many voices –

_How could they do that?_

_What an embarrassment._

_How could they be so inconsiderate?_

_A homosexual couple’s skate on international television, how shameless-_

But you know? You know what? Viktor doesn’t give one single fuck. Not one, you see. Two? Nope. Three? Fuck no.

He just doesn’t care. Nope nope.

Later that day, Yuuri skates his program beautifully, and Viktor walks out hearing new things. Instead of the world, he hears new words. Lines of people, begging for a coach.

 

* * *

 

The strange corkscrews in their relationship are dizzying, but many things stay the same. For one, Viktor’s arms beneath Yuuri's thighs, lifting Yuuri against the wall of their hotel room as soon as the lock is thrown.

And also Yuuri, kicking, kissing Viktor so hard, that they fall back onto the bed. That stays the same, too.

Viktor looks at the koi man who looms above him.

“Why did you do that?” Viktor laughs, as they kiss. “That was your time to practice.”

Yuuri arches into him, lips dragging words so lovely, so divine. “Because sometimes the world forgets how much I love you.”

The way Yuuri kisses him? Maybe similar, maybe not. Viktor doesn’t remember his lips feeling this _hot._ He doesn’t remember his skin sparking as much as it does. But, you know. It’s like this every time. Like he’s rediscovering everything beautiful about Yuuri.

Hands press into his shoulders – nice hands, manicured nails. Yuuri squirms, hips pressed flush against Viktor's. His lips make a frenzied line down Viktor’s cheeks, his throat, collarbone stomach, hips and navel, redfish blue, seven ate nine- what’s the recipe for mashed potatoes? Ayeee Macarena-

“What are you rambling about?” Yuuri laughs, tongue licking into the divot of his hipbone.

“I’m trying to distract myself,” Viktor says, “Or I’m gonna' lose it.”  

Yuuri grins, and sucks a hard hickey into Viktor’s side.

“Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack, all dressed in black, black, black-“

Yuuri’s laugh is loud and giggly, and soon it’s against Viktor’s lips, kissing and mapping out every line in Viktor’s mouth.

Viktor paws into Yuuri’s side, hands rolling up his chest, grey shirt collecting around his wrists. He squeezes all the warm skin he can find, mouth pliant for Yuuri’s tongue to fuck into.

And that’s fine and dandy until Yuuri grinds down, once, twice, cock half-hard in his sweats - so Viktor flips them, pressing Yuuri into the mattress, and kissing every ticklish spot he knows. The hysteric laugher is honestly too good. Too pure. Wine, wine, wine on a wedding dress-

Yuuri claws down his back, and grinds his hardon against Viktor’s, every thrust a dull throb of pleasure. Viktor’s eyes roll shut, for just a moment, huffing and squirming – “Ugh, clothes-“

“Off, off,” Yuuri rolls off his shirt, “no more clothes.”

Viktor can’t stop smiling. He kicks his jeans onto the floor, and tosses his shirt who knows where. Yuuri is naked, reaching over into the bag on the bedside table, until he happily finds lube.

“Dear god,” Viktor sits back on his haunches. “You shouldn’t be allowed to own shirts.”

“Oh yeah?” Yuuri smirks, popping open the lube, “Speak for yourself.”

Viktor looks down – and for a moment, hears _undeserving, washed up –_

But he’s able to huff, “Yeah, I mean. I could go to the gym more.”

Yuuri snorts, shifting his hips up, squirming a finger in himself, “Shut up, honestly.”

Viktor beams, and sits back, spreading Yuuri’s thighs, and watching Yuuri’s finger work in gently. He watches, until he just can’t sit still – reaching for the lube, working in a finger alongside Yuuri’s. Viktor _lives_ for his soft moans, for his gentle keens, for the way his hips lift and his thighs tense.

Viktor can’t help himself. Can’t help folding Yuuri up like a sweet little cinnamon roll – can’t help rolling his tongue beneath his balls, and fucking him open with his tongue – because by _god_ the noises. Yuuri’s mouth makes such good sounds, always, always.

Yuuri is so many things – too much for Viktor to comprehend.

He’s a music box; wind him up, watch him sing. Mentos in a coke bottle, grease in a pan. 

Nails run from his shoulders, to his neck. They scrape behind his ears, and dig into the curve of his skull. Viktor’s head lulls with the movement, and Yuuri takes advantage of it, leaning up and sucking beneath his throat. Viktor openly moans, and feels the vibration echo into Yuuri’s mouth.

“Mmm,” Yuuri hums, “are you gonna’ fuck me…or…?”

Viktor laughs, before he spreads Yuuri just a little wider, rocking his hips up, and grinding his dick into the divot of Yuuri’s right inner leg. “Dunno’. Maybe I’ll just stay here for a while.”

“Okay,” Yuuri decides, shockingly peppy. His lips move slightly to the left, “Then I’ll send you to the press conference tomorrow with a shiny new necklace.”

“Wha-“

Yuuri bites down once more, sucking hard, kissing the skin and drawing the blood to the mark. He doesn’t break skin, but the mark swells.

“God,” Viktor’s eyes flutter shut, and he rocks his hip against Yuuri’s velvety leg once more. So sooooft-

Another bite, by his adam’s apple. Viktor feels his cock throb, and thinks _fuck,_ fuck, okay, fuck-

He’s quick to guide himself between Yuuri’s legs, pressing in gently, shocking Yuuri into falling back against the pillow. Viktor fucks in, and Yuuri’s face is just- _mmm_ , muah, spicy meatball. He looks like a sedated patient- like a starving man suddenly fed.

Viktor rocks back, before rolling back in, and Yuuri is so blissed out, that he smiles.

Those nails are back, but they feel like home. Home, in a hotel room. Home in each other. It’s good, and okay.

Sometimes, it’s overwhelming. All of it. How much Viktor fucking _adores_ Yuuri. But they’re learning together, growing stronger. Leaning to adapt to this weird world of voices – learning to cope on their own.

They look to each other for strength. They shield each other from the bad.

But they’re learning to do it on their own, too.

It’s okay. It’s all good. A world of shrinks and noise.

Viktor’s forehead becomes one with Yuuri’s shoulder, permanently making a mark there, as they’re lost together in repetitive movement and teeth marks. He’s not sure how many times the headboard smacks against the wall, and if there’s the knock of the maids, he doesn’t hear it.

Instead he climbs, grows higher. Takes Yuuri with him, and jumps off the cliffside – all half-hidden noises, and drawn out hickies. Words of confessions, words that never get old.

 

* * *

 

I wish every story had a moral. Brains are fucken weird, I guess. The world is loud, and it eats; devours.

Yuuri will move on; off, to better things, something else he loves, other than skating. All good things come to an end. And it’s a good thing, too. Viktor will be there to see it until that end.

He still wants to protect him. To pull Yuuri behind him when the cameras flash, to smother him when the words are just too loud. Yuuri’s lip will run raw, from his nervous teeth pulling it tight. His fingers might peel, from his nails running across the cuticles in anxious tugs.

Viktor’s hands might shake, when he’s suddenly so unsure. When he looks at that shower, and sees a former shell of himself.

But eh, what are humans. What is the _world?_ What are brains, you know?

For the time being, Viktor has Yuuri, and that’s really all he gives a damn about.

**Author's Note:**

> if you're looking for something fluffier, ive written two other viktuuri fics that are just,,, 100% squish lmao, so i beg u,, pls be nice 
> 
> you can find me on [tumblr](http://zanimez.tumblr.com/)


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